New Title 1

by Florschutz, Max

  “In dying though,” he said, continuing. “I have to make some decisions. By command of the fleet, I should dive my ship into the closest star to keep any past primitives from getting their hands on the technology that it represents. But in thinking about it …” He smiled, a genuine, sincere look of satisfaction on his face for a brief moment.

  “Screw ‘em. Those bastards never did much of anything for me anyway. And it’s not like they can stop me. After all, I’m dying, and they won’t exist for another few centuries, if at all.”

  Another cough, followed by Wanderer catching his breath. I was staring at his image, trying to figure out what he was playing at.

  “Like I said, I won’t say I’m sorry,” Wanderer said. “But you were right. I don’t care for this city. Never did. It was never my home. Never a place I wanted to be. It was a means to—to—” Another cough. “An end.”

  I was getting madder by the second. Had he called me all this way just to remind me, just to dredge up old feelings?

  “Which is why I’m leaving this ship, and everything in it, to you.”

  My world came to a sudden, violent halt. My jaw dropped open as one word forced its way out.

  “What?”

  “Because you do care about the city,” Wanderer continued. “After our interview, I spent some time following up on you, reading your blogs, your stories. You care about this city. You care about what’s right. I can see some similarities between us.”

  That choice of words hit a nerve, and I clenched my hands into fists. I didn’t think I could hit a hologram, but I was prepared to find a way to do so.

  “You care about this city sort of like I care about my family.”

  For the second time in as many minutes, my jaw dropped once more. I might as well have left my mouth open.

  “But we’re different,” Wanderer continued, unable to see my reaction. “You’re not a coward. You faced me down like I was child. You’re what we called back on C-Square a high-diver: You run right to the edge and jump without a trace of fear. Me?” He shook his head. “I was never one of those. Even with my armor. The only times I’ve done anything really brave was when I was running from something scarier. I’m a coward, Samantha. But you? You’re not.”

  “And so,” he said as my brain struggled to catch up with what was going on. “As my final act in life, and as captain of this United Terra Space Fleet Logistics Vessel, I do hereby confirm transference of command of this vessel and all its cargo to you, Samantha.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re talking at all right now, which I expect you are, then the ship is scanning you and taking every note it can. It’ll follow your orders now.” He gave me a slow, weary shrug. “You might not be able to fly it, but there’s a manual on the computers. The reactor should have enough fuel at standby to keep things running for another fifty, sixty years, but if you need to refuel, there are instructions.”

  “What?” I was stuck in a loop. Me? Captain or owner or whatever of a spaceship?

  “Now, you’re either shouting at me right now, or confused, so listen up,” Wanderer said, his voice growing a little more firm. “You said a lot of things to me about the city looking up to me, and I never wanted them to. You, on the other hand, were just like the rest of them. You wanted me to be a hero they could look up to.”

  “Well, this is your chance to put your heart where your words were. This ship, and its cargo, are yours now. That means you can open and use any of the cargo in that bay. Including the six combat-marine class, armored power suits I was supposed to be delivering to that backwater mudball that got me into this mess.”

  Once more I found myself completely stunned.

  “They didn’t come with any weapons that aren’t built in,” he continued, oblivious to my shock. “But they’re two-hundred years more advanced than anything on Terra, and state-of-the-art compared to my old suit. Just open one of the crates, activate the fitting system, strip down, and step inside. It’ll do the rest. After that, I don’t care. Go put yourself on the line, get yourself killed, whatever. But it’s all yours, now.”

  “Oh, and by the way,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll do you one last favor and trigger my suit’s remote immolation once you start watching this. No muss, no fuss, just a little smell and some dust to sweep up. The place is all yours. Paid up through the year. Key to the front door is on the benches.” He coughed again, and then the image looked me in the eye, his jaw clenching in a determined, final expression of defiance.

  “Goodbye.” The recording winked out, and the cockpit was dim once more.

  I was in shock. I’m not sure how long I stood there, staring at the place where Wanderer’s recording had stood, but I only was shaken from my trance by a bitter, burnt smell coming from outside of the ship. I ran out to see that, true to his word, his suit had immolated itself, taking his body with it. All that was left of Wanderer was a pile of smelly, charred dust and some scorch marks on the chair he’d died in.

  I went home. I needed to think, needed to mull things over in my mind. Everything had just changed on me, changed in a way I hadn’t ever expected or conceived. Wanderer was gone—for good this time. And everything he’d controlled was mine.

  Including the suits. Combat-capable suits that, in his own words, put his already incredible suit to shame.

  It was almost a week before I went back to the storage unit. I’d needed the time to be me, to figure out what I was going to do. But in the end, I knew, and I went to work with gusto.

  The first thing I did was go through the smaller boxes and see exactly what was in them. What was fungible, resalable. In the process, I did figure out how to open them. You just had to have a magnetic card that you placed on the discolored patch. I found it by his bunk. Everything else mechanical for the crates was on the inside. How it was powered, I didn’t know.

  But it was something I could sell in the future, that much was certain.

  I started small. I picked something simple, a strip of camouflage cloth that actually changed its color to mimic its surroundings. I played things carefully, consulting a lawyer or two along the way, but it wasn’t hard to find a buyer. I kept everything quiet, worked through intermediaries, and sold it, collecting a nice, healthy chunk of change in the process.

  After that, I had money. Lots of it. Enough to live off of for years; decades maybe, if invested properly.

  But I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my own mother. Instead, I started up my own news site, something small at first, but something that could grow.

  Of course, if I started really reporting on what I wanted to, I’d need protections. Security.

  But I wasn’t the only one. The whole city did, in a way. Already, in the months following his death, Wanderer’s absence was being felt again. Crime was rising once more. Criminals were becoming more brazen.

  Our city needed a hero.

  Three months after Wanderer died, I was back in the storage unit I’d taken over, standing in front of one of the combat suit lockers. I’d read the manual from back to front, studied every step of the process. I was prepped. I was ready. And, to my annoyance, I was naked, since the manual had specifically forbidden the wearing of clothing during the fitting procedure. Nanites, apparently, would take care of everything.

  I opened the door, looked that the small, spindly spider-arms that were tucked in along the walls and the silvery, liquid goop that sat in a pool at the bottom of the locker like mercury, waiting for an occupant to fit. I could see pieces of bland, beige colored panels racked along the sides, waiting for a chance to be colored and set into place. One whole suit of advanced combat armor, ready to be assembled. I stepped in, my feet pressing down on the semi-solid, silvery nanite surface, turned to face the door, and pulled it shut.

  Seven hours later I stepped out once more, ready at long last to fill the hollow that had been with me for so many months.

  Because everything I’d told Wanderer had been true. The city needed a hero
.

  My city needed a hero.

  Fifteen minutes later I was on the edge of a rooftop, my armor gleaming under the silver moonlight. The light wasn’t the best for showing off the reddish-color scheme I’d chosen, but I was sure the media would get it right before long. I’d deactivated my optical camouflage for the time being, not caring about who might look up and see me silhouetted on the roof. I wanted to be seen. I wanted my city to know.

  My helmet was scanning through hundreds of different channels, the suit’s computer searching for key words that would indicate a crime, a disaster—anything nearby that I could help with.

  My audio sensors—specially tuned to identify sounds of my choosing—picked up the tinkling of broken glass, and I looked up. Two-hundred yards away. Parking lot. Most likely a break-in. More glass hitting the pavement. A yell of shock. Someone was being carjacked.

  I moved to jump and then hesitated. I’d never picked a name.

  I shrugged and then jumped, sailing across the alleyway to the roof of the next building over. I could figure out a name later. Something cool. Something inspiring.

  Right now? My city needed a hero. A real hero.

  A superhero.

  Beneath my visor, I grinned.

  Now they would have one.

  For Glory

  You know, I’m actually not going to say much here. I’ll save it for the afterword. Why an afterword, you ask? Well, because this is one of those stories where I don’t want to explain anything up front. In fact, the less you know in advance, I think, the better. You’ll get a clear picture of what’s going on as soon as the story starts, but if I outline my thought process or explanation right here, then I fear I run the risk of spoiling the whole thing.

  Suffice it to say, this is one of my favorite stories in entire collection. Maybe the favorite.

  Why? Well, I’ll tell you in the afterword. Which in and of itself is telling enough. None of the other stories in this set got an afterword. What makes this one special?

  Well, you’ll have to read it and see.

  It was raining again. It seemed like it was always raining these days.

  By the Great Spirit, Mathoni thought as he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. It came away slick with wetness. Wetness that was, moments later, already pooling out from beneath his helm. What did we ever do to deserve this infernal weather besetting us?

  The sound of the pouring rain seemed to fill the air all around him, muffling the noise the small army made as it moved through the jungle. Even the idle chatter of his battle brothers, the men with whom he’d spent the last five weeks hiking back and forth through the accursed jungle with in search of enemy supply convoys, was shrouded by the omnipresent rattle of the rain rolling off of leaves and tree trunks alike. It was a constant, dull roar over everything they did, like the rushing of a swift creek that refused to be held back by its banks.

  Three days, he thought as his foot twisted on a root, almost throwing him off balance. Antiomno shot him a glance, his face brightening in a friendly smile as he saw Mathoni’s misfortune.

  “I’m well,” Mathoni said as Antiomno opened his mouth to speak. “I just slipped.” Antiomno nodded before turning his attention back to whatever he and the rest of his battle brothers were talking about. Wanting to go home to their wives, probably. They were just as sick of the constant, unyielding rain as the rest of the army was.

  But still they slogged onward, through the thick forest, following an ancient road that had probably been old when their forefathers had first settled the land, ignoring the rain as best they could. They had a mission—a purpose—given by King Amalickiah himself to Kumen, their captain. They were to push towards Zarahemla, capital city of their sworn enemies, using the old, overgrown road, and then turn aside, hunting for Nephite supply caravans from the forest. With luck, and a little careful navigation, they would come out behind the defensive fortifications the Nephite commanders had erected around their cities, far enough back that they wouldn’t be easily pursued should an army within one choose to leave, but close enough that they could aid with a siege.

  That was the plan, of course. So far, the closest they’d been to actually finding a supply caravan had been their scouts coming running through the jungle shouting that they’d run into a Nephite army—and not just any army, but an army belonging to Teancum himself. Even Kumen, as devoted as he was to their king, wasn’t foolish enough to think that his small force could stand against the warriors of Teancum. And so they’d retreated.

  Into rain and more rain, Mathoni thought as he wiped his forehead once more. If this keeps up like this, my armor will begin to rot. It almost felt as if it had already. His skin was hot and sticky, but still wet, like he was swimming in sweet drink. The heat was endless, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders. Then again, maybe that was his armor, the rain proving too much for the lacquered wood.

  The army moved on. At least we’re following a path, Mathoni thought as he took a quick look around at the rest of the group. Even if it is old and ill-kept. Moving through the jungle was far more work, especially when the rain made everything slick and muddy.

  On the bright side, any army that was pursuing them would be forced to slog through the same conditions. I guess the Great Spirit might have his reasons to give unto us such foul weather. Even if it does make campfires difficult to light. He grimaced at that. Their meal the night before had been soggy and lukewarm, the cooks unable to procure anything of real sustenance with the weather so disagreeable.

  The battle brothers in front of him stopped, and Mathoni let out a sigh of relief. Finally. A stop had to mean that they were getting close to their destination. One of the men had been talking about a valley earlier, a small grove where they’d be mostly out of the elements … Provided it didn’t flood over the last few days, Mathoni though, giving the sky a glum look. Still, if the rumors were true, all hundred of their small company could set up camp for the first time in days and finally rest their weary feet.

  Perhaps even finally get a taste of war, Mathoni thought with a smile. He felt like reaching for the cimeter strapped to his pack, but it was secured, carefully wrapped in strips of light, padded cloth to keep its obsidian teeth from cutting into anything. Still, the thought of battle was exciting, even through the endless, insufferable weather around them.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, tapping Antiomno on the shoulder. His battle brother turned, lifting his eyebrows in an expression of ignorance.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head as he spoke. His long hair was slick with wetness, and the motion sent a spray of water cascading down around the man. “Someone stopped.”

  “It was word from the scouts,” someone further up said, his voice barely audible over the dull rumble of the rain. “They found something maybe? Nephites?”

  “As long as it isn’t Teancum,” another warrior said. “We barely got away from him last time.”

  “I heard Teancum’s men have been cursed by the Great Spirit,” someone else said. “That during the heat of battle, they take on the form of jaguars and drag men off into the forests to be eaten.”

  “More Nephite lies,” Antiomno hissed. “Children’s tales with which to scare us and make us fearful. Such trickery will not save them in the—”

  “Silence!” The sharp command echoed across the company, and each of the warriors quieted.

  Whatever it is, it’d be better than standing here, Mathoni thought as he wiped at his forehead once more. As it had before, the motion did little to stave off the crying skies. Up ahead, the army began to move, but he could already see through the falling mists that they were turning off of the road, forging into the jungle rather than following the ancient path.

  Perhaps I should implore the Great Spirit for something other than rain this evening, Mathoni thought as he began to move forward once more, water spilling across his armor as he moved.

  Then again, maybe such a request wasn’t the wisest
choice. The Great Spirit was just as likely to send a torrent upon them, a storm of great magnitude, as he was a blessing of agreeable weather.

  The Great Spirit does according to his own wills and desires, Mathoni thought. Much as we do. Well … he amended as his foot sank deep into a puddle, mud squelching around his toes. Sometimes as we do. At the moment, I’d rather be a lot of other places.

  Up ahead, the army moved into the thick undergrowth, water scattering at their passing as they pushed through the brush. A few minutes later, not a sign remained on the ancient road of their passing but the battered, broken mud, churned by hundreds of footprints.

  * * *

  Wonderful, Mathoni thought as he stirred the gruel that was their meal for the night. It was thinner than normal, almost watery. Either they were running out of food, or the cooks had decided that their food needed to match the skies.

  Maybe both, he thought as he lifted the small bowl to his mouth and choked the broth down. He didn’t want to think about what was in it. If he did, he was surely going to start comparing the scarce ingredients with what he could have prepared on his own, and there was no way that would end well.

  The milk’s gone sour, he thought as he took another sip. And the cornmeal is—He shook his head. Don’t think about it.

  At least they’d had some things work in their favor. The valley that had been the focal point of so many rumors was a real place, and while the creek running through its center was well past its banks as a result of the thundering rains, there was still plenty of room for their camp. One of the scouts had even reported fresh game nearby; a chance to restock their supply and perhaps get a chance at some meat that hadn’t been dried and wrapped weeks before. There had been a cry of relief at that announcement, and several of the men had volunteered to go hunting rather than spend time setting up a hasty camp.